Grindhouse poetics

Even though Grindhouse is very two weeks ago, I have to drop a few more droplets into the fray. Like every film geek I know, I’ve spent an unhealthy portion of recent days wondering what the utter financial failure of this movie means for Hollywood, for my family and friends, and for Western Civilization. Destabilizing, at best.

I wanted to read and learn and understand. That’s how I stumbled on Neill Cumpson’s spectacularly foul-mouthed review, one of about a dozen Grindhouse pieces to be found at Ain’t It Cool News. Reading Cumpson was to me the very bestest thing about the movie — even more satisfying than watching Tarantino stagger around with a giant stick poking out his eye.

Quoting the AICN review is kind of like excerpting The Wasteland — you’ve got to read the whole thing to really get it — but here’s a tiny slice, just to inflame your nostrils:

“[Tarantino] KICKS ALL SPECTRUM OF ASS. He kicks ass that isn’t even in the ass area. Like, his director skills are so stripper-with-chainsaw good they make you grow asses on other parts of your body that he then kicks. I hope he directs more movies. I would see them, burn down the theater, and then call the fire department so I could tell all the fireman about what a kick-ass movie it was. When they started to attack me with axes, I’d fly away because Quentin’s movie would have given me ninja flight.”